Blue Bayou Final

by Kate, Jiffy

  “So,” Shep says around a bite of food, once we’ve opened every container and popped the top on some beers. I said I didn’t want beer, but I lied. It’s good. Between this and the two fingers of whiskey I had earlier, at least I don’t feel as wound up as I’ve been lately.

  “So,” I return, taking a heaping chopstick full of Moo Goo Gai Pan and shoving it into my mouth.

  “I talked to Ros today,” he starts, quirking an eyebrow.

  “So,” I reply again, only this time with distaste. I don’t give two shits about Ros.

  “Just thought you might be interested in some information she passed on.”

  I wait, chopsticks midair and motion for him to continue.

  “Apparently, your father took a trip to New Orleans last week.”

  My heart drops into the pit of my stomach as I immediately imagine him walking into the Blue Bayou, harassing Carys...forcing her hand on something she doesn’t want...acquiring the hotel. My mind goes to the worst-case scenario before I squeeze my eyes together and take a long drink of beer in an effort to clear my head. “What else did she say?”

  “Well, I guess it didn’t quite go as planned. She said before he left he was talking about what a pussy you were and how you never can close a deal.” Shep pauses to roll his eyes and mutter expletives under his breath. He hates my father almost as much as I do. “Anyway, I guess he felt confident he’d walk in, lay it on the line, and Miss Matthews would roll over and give him what he wanted.”

  Talking about Carys and my father...and her rolling over and giving him anything has me seeing red. I tighten my jaw so hard it hurts, grinding out, “And?” He needs to keep talking before I flip this fucking table and ruin our dinner.

  “Didn’t happen,” Shep says smugly. “He got back a few days ago and was royally fucking pissed. She said he canceled his meetings for the day, one being with her, and wouldn’t return her calls. His assistant, some guy he brought in from Peterson’s, who Ros has been fucking, gave up the deets. He told her when Mr. Kensington got back he said the deal was off. He called a meeting with the prospective buyer later that day and has been in a shit mood ever since.”

  My heart is back up in my chest where it belongs, beating soundly, full of pride.

  I don’t know what happened, but I can take a guess, and I wish I’d been there to see it. The new vision of Carys handing my father his ass on a silver platter has me grinning from ear to fucking ear.

  “That’s my girl.”

  Shep gives me a wink and continues stuffing his face.

  Best news I’ve had in a long time.

  “Let’s talk about this new venture,” I tell him, feeling rejuvenated and ready to kick some ass.

  After we discuss our ideas and go over the properties I collected information on when I was in New Orleans, Shep sits back and nods, quiet for longer than usual. “I like it. I think this is going to be a good investment.”

  “You sure?” I ask, knowing I’m asking a lot of him, needing his financial support to follow through with what I want to accomplish. Most of the cash flow will come from our clients. We plan on orchestrating deals—a matchmaking for property owners of sorts.

  “It might take a while for us to see a return on investment. We might need to acquire a few of these properties on our own and do some upgrades, just basic improvements, to make them more attractive to possible buyers,” Shep says thoughtfully. “But I’m on board. One hundred percent.”

  “It might require going to New Orleans occasionally,” I warn. “Seeing that the properties we’re considering are all within the city limits.”

  “I’m okay with that.” Shep sighs, taking a swig of his beer. “I’ve been wanting out of this damn city for a while. You know that.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  So, we’re doing this.

  Shepherd Rhys-Jones and I are going into business together. I mean, we should’ve seen this coming ten years ago when we started swindling our classmates out of money, selling everything our parents sent us, but up charging due to delivery fees. I always wanted to give them a break and sell stuff cheap, but Shep was the one who wanted to monopolize on the supply and demand.

  We balance each other out.

  I’ll keep us on the straight and narrow and he’ll make sure we don’t get fucked over.

  It’s a match made in heaven.

  After Shep is gone and the kitchen is cleaned back up, I stand at the counter, looking out into the great room. I love this house, but since I’ve been back, it hasn’t felt like home. Since I found the Blue Bayou, nothing else feels quite right.

  At that thought, I walk into my office and take the journal out of the drawer. Leaning against the desk, I pull it back out of the brown paper package and run my hand along the leather. Bringing it to my nose, I inhale again, wondering if it was just my wishful imagination that thought I smelled Carys on the pages.

  No.

  It’s definitely her.

  And it makes my throat tighten with the visions her scent brings.

  Carys smiling.

  Carys laughing.

  Carys’ blue eyes.

  Carys’ long blonde hair.

  Carys moaning beneath me, on top of me. Her soft pale skin under my hands.

  Heaven.

  That’s what it was. My two weeks at the Blue Bayou with her was like a slice of heaven or maybe a taste, just enough to let me know I want to go there. I want to live there.

  Flipping it open, I go straight to the back, where I know there are blank pages to be filled, and my heart stops. Beautiful, swooping handwriting fills half a page.

  July 2nd

  I miss the way you tell me things without saying a word. I miss the feeling of complete contentment when I’m with you. I miss the way my skin zips with electricity when you walk into the room. I miss the way you felt like an old friend. I miss the way you tease me and challenge me to be a better version of myself. I miss feeling like I can take on the world when you’re by my side.

  But I’ve been doing it.

  I’ve been slaying dragons and taking charge of my life.

  You helped me do that.

  A wise man once said that love is a risk and trust doesn’t come cheap.

  So, I’m sitting here, asking myself:

  Is this relationship worth that risk?

  Is it worth feeling vulnerable?

  Is it worth forgiving?

  Reading Carys’ words is like having a piece of her here and I immediately feel elated and sad all at the same time. So fucking sad, because I miss her. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell her the truth from the beginning. The day I got the papers, I should’ve told her about them and we could’ve worked on a solution together, or she could’ve at least known what she was facing. I did her a disservice by not telling her, and for that, I’m sorry.

  I wish I knew what her answers are to those questions. I wish I could hug her and tell her how much I feel for her. I wish I had another fucking number besides the hotel.

  We never had a reason to exchange phone numbers. I thought I’d get it before I left. I pictured a tearful goodbye, filled with kisses and promises of seeing each other again in a few weeks. I didn’t picture everything going so terribly wrong, and now, I’m terribly unequipped.

  Walking over to my desk, I sit down and fire up my computer. Immediately, I open Facebook and search out Carys’ old profile. But when I get there, the photo I’ve come to love is gone.

  I pause, my mouse hovering over the new image and I swallow down a lump in my throat.

  It’s Carys and Jules.

  She’s mid-laugh and it looks like Jules is the one who took the picture.

  My eyes take in every aspect of the photo—the way the light is hitting her hair, the shape of her lips, the crinkle in her nose. Rubbing my chest, I try to ease the longing I feel seeing her beautiful face. It feels like a lot longer than a month since I’ve seen her and there’s something different about her. The thought that she’s changed and t
hat I missed it kills me.

  I can’t quit staring at her and it might be a bit stalkerish, but I hover my mouse over the photo and right click, saving it to my computer.

  Scrolling down the page a little further, hungry for any information about her, I notice where she’s changed her profile and it now says she’s the owner of the Blue Bayou with a hyperlink, which I immediately click.

  There’s a new cover photo and albums. It’s completely revamped and it looks great—inviting, cozy, eclectic—everything the Blue Bayou is.

  As I follow the website, I’m pleasantly surprised when I see the new design, so open and fresh, with a button for reservations. Instinctively, I click it and go to two days from now.

  Booked.

  Just for kicks, I plug in a bunch more dates and every one of them shows no vacancy.

  Picking the journal back up, I flip through it again, wanting to re-read Carys’ entry before I try to call the hotel, and that’s when I see it. On the very last page is another note in Carys’ handwriting.

  Grand Re-Opening

  Blue Bayou Hotel

  123 St. Ann, New Orleans, LA

  July 6th

  Come for a taste of the French Quarter.

  Come back to the Blue Bayou

  Without a second thought, I pick up my phone and hit redial.

  “What’s up man? You already reconsidering?” Shep asks, obviously half asleep.

  “Sorry if I woke your ass up, but I need you to pack a bag.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Blue Bayou.”

  Chapter 29

  Carys

  Stepping inside the bar, I immediately notice it’s unlike most of the bars in this area. Most bars in or around the French Quarter have their doors and windows wide open with music blaring in order to catch the attention of those walking by. But this place, interestingly called Come Again, only has one door propped open and it’s not until I’m completely inside and seated on a stool that I notice the hard rock music coming through the speakers. There’s also not a strand of Mardi Gras beads to be seen.

  Very interesting.

  “How can I help you?” I turn to see a man with dark hair and equally dark eyes watching me closely from behind the counter, using a white bar towel to dry a stack of freshly washed glasses. He doesn’t have the typical welcoming demeanor one expects in a bartender, but there is something about him that’s just...intriguing.

  “Hi, I’m Carys Matthews. I run the Blue Bayou hotel around the corner,” I say, pointing over my shoulder but having no idea if it’s the right direction or not. “I called earlier about hiring a bartender from here for a party I’m hosting and was told to come speak with a Mr. O’Sullivan.” My voice goes up like I’m answering a question and I’m probably coming off sounding like a stupid kid, but I can’t help it. This guy is intense and it’s intimidating.

  “You can call me Shaw.” His tone is gruff as he thrusts his hand in my direction, offering a business-like handshake. I immediately accept it, giving him a smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Shaw. I’ve heard great things about your place.”

  He nods his head once, but his facial expression doesn’t change. For a second, I think that’s all the conversation I’m going to get out of him until he finally asks, “What kind of party are you hosting?”

  “It’s a grand re-opening party for the hotel. I’ve recently done a few upgrades, spruced the place up a bit, while keeping its original charm.” I throw that last part in there because it’s important to me. “Anyway, I thought it’d be fun to re-introduce it to the community. I’m also all about supporting other local businesses so, if you have any brochures or business cards you’d like me to display in the hotel lobby, I’d be happy to.”

  He seems to be mulling over my words while he continues to watch me. Approaching him like this is so out of my comfort zone, but I made myself pull up my big girl panties and just do it. If he says no, I’ll find someone else. It’s as simple as that.

  But, why doesn’t it feel as simple as that?

  “How fancy are we talking?”

  Shaw’s question catches me off guard and I have to think about it for a second.

  “It’s not anything super fancy, but it’ll be nice. Casual but charming,” I say with a slightly nervous laugh. “The party will take place in the late afternoon in the hotel’s courtyard, so the drinks should be refreshing, as well as tasty.”

  “Will food be served?” He grabs a pen and notepad from his side of the bar and starts writing, like he’s taking notes.

  “Lagniappe will be serving finger foods and I’ll be providing macarons.”

  Shaw looks up at me with his eyebrows raised. “You make macarons?”

  “I do. My grandmother taught me,” I reply with pride.

  My answer must impress him because he nods his head, thoughtfully. “Those aren’t easy to master. I own the cooking school next door with my sister and we reserve that particular class for those we know are serious about learning.”

  “A cooking school? How fun! I had no idea, but then again, I haven’t been out much lately.”

  “Yeah,” he replies gruffly, almost like he regrets mentioning it and then continues hastily, “It was closed for a while, but we recently reopened it.”

  “I bet that’s going over well. I’d love to have some info. I could pass it along to my guests, if you’d like,” I offer.

  “I’d appreciate that, thanks.” He gives what could almost be considered a smile and a nod. I’m guessing he’s normally a man of few words, so I find myself appreciating the gesture. “If Lagniappe is doing the food,” he continues, “why not have them do the drinks as well?”

  “Well, like I mentioned earlier, I really love supporting local businesses and I thought the party would be a great way to showcase some that are close by. If I have Lagniappe do the food and the drinks, that’s kind of like letting them bogart the party, you know?”

  Shaw lets out a quick laugh, but stops, almost like he caught himself and thought better of it. It’s deep and scratchy, perhaps from lack of use, and very attractive, if I’m being honest.

  When he brings his hand up to scratch his beard thoughtfully, I also notice a wedding band on his left hand. At that, I smile, feeling a bit of a blush creep up on my cheeks. I’ve always thought monogamy is sexy.

  Not in a “I’m gonna steal her man” sort of way, but rather a “good for her”.

  “I guess that’ll work,” he finally says. “Just let me know what time to be there.”

  “That’s great!” I slide him one of my new fancy business cards and tell him I’ll be in touch to firm up the details tomorrow. I still need to check back with Micah on the exact menu.

  I’m almost to the door when I remember to ask the question that’s been nagging at me since I got here. “Hey, Shaw, why is this place called Come Again? Besides the obvious, of course.”

  “The obvious?”

  “Well, you want your customers to come again, right? To come back to the bar?”

  “Yes, that’s true, but the bar is actually named for my signature cocktail...something so good, you’ll be asking to come again and again,” he deadpans, and I expect him to follow it up with a smile or laugh, but he doesn’t. There’s no wink, no smirk… nothing. He just drops that bomb and goes back to business as usual.

  Holy shit.

  I’m now blushing from my head to my toes, and on that note, I hightail it out of the bar before he gets a chance to see my flustered state. If I was getting some on the regular, a statement like that might not have affected me in such a way, but since Maverick left, my whole body has been out of sorts.

  Thankfully, I have a couple blocks to walk to my next stop and I use the time to cool my jets and clear my mind. The last thing I need is to be thinking about Maverick. Every time that happens, I tend to lose hours of productivity to daydreaming and feeling sexually frustrated.

  After stopping by Lagniappe and finalizing the menu wi
th Micah, I head back to the hotel. I hired a crew to clean up the courtyard and decorate it with fresh plants and flowers, as well as those cute, little fairy lights and I’m anxious to see how everything is coming together.

  It was an expense I wouldn’t normally opt for, choosing to take the time and do it myself, but I haven’t had time and I still have some money left from the loan that I set aside for this specific task. Also, it’s not just for the grand re-opening. Afterwards, I plan on starting a new tradition on the weekends, treating our guests to hors d’oeuvres and drinks at sunset.

  When I step inside, I hear Mary’s happy voice say, “Oh, here she is”, and my heart does a flip. For a fleeting, hopeful moment, I wonder if Maverick is back. I can’t help it. Ever since I sent him the journal, I’ve let myself start to hope he’ll walk through the doors at any moment.

  There’s so much I want—need—to say to him and it should be done face-to-face. Even if he never forgives me for what I said to him, I must apologize. Then, I need to thank him for encouraging me to make all these necessary changes to the hotel. And lastly, I’d like to tell him how much I’ve missed him and that I was—am—falling for him.

  In short, this grand re-opening is nothing without him showing up. Sure, I’ll put on a happy face and pretend like everything is fine, like I’ve been doing, but deep down, it won’t be a success in my book if he’s not here.

  My excitement is tampered down, just a little, when I see that it is in fact not Maverick standing in my lobby, but CeCe. She turns to face me and I notice she has something flat, but huge, wrapped in brown paper next to her, leaning against the front desk.

  “Hey, whatcha got there?”

  “A little surprise for you. Well, for the hotel, that is.” She smiles as I walk over and give her a quick hug. I just saw her yesterday, when I dropped off some macarons and new brochures, and she didn’t say anything then about a surprise.